The following is from Chuck Palahniuk's novel, Adjustment Day. A mysterious book has been circulating, one that contains dark directives that will guide its readers during Adjustment Day—a day of reckoning targeting names on an online list. Chuck Palahniuk is the author of the award-winning novel Fight Club, as well as Invisible Monsters, Survivor, and Choke.

The father and son had been driving around in the white Fire Marshallcarwiththespecialstickeronthebackwindowandthe redlightonthedashboard,exceptthelightwasn’tswitchedon. They drove past spray-painted houses, houses with woodnailed over the gone windows, houses where only a basement was left, likeaswimmingpoolfilledwithweedsandtreesgrowinginside.

TheydrovetoFrankie’soldschoolfrombeforehestartedremote learning on the computer in their kitchen at home. After the day thatFrankie’sdadcalledtheLastStraw.Afterabunchofkidsdog-piledhimatlunch.Aftertheytookturnsstompinghisheadagainst the lunchroom floor,somethingFrankiecouldn’tremember,even after the teachers had shown them the lunchroom video and the cameramoviessomekidshadpostedonWorldStarHipHop.

Firemenhaveaspecialkey,hisdadshowedhim.Itopensevery door.Anotherspecialkeyshutsoffthesecurityalarm.Hetold Frankienottomindaboutthesecurityvideos.Thehigh-upcameraswatchedthemgodowneveryhallway,walkingpastFrankie’s old locker, past the spot where nobody did anything besides videotape him getting his face stomped. Any trace of blood had been scrubbed away.

Same as usual, his dad worked the pump action ontheSuper Soaker, spraying every bulletin board hung withpaper.Hosing everyschoolspiritbanner,withthatservicestationsmell.Asthey strolledthehallways,Frankie’sdadsquirt-gunnedthesmellof fillingthelawnmowerandcleaningpaintbrushes.Hesprayedthe ceilingtilesuntiltheyweresosaturatedtheywarpedandsagged. ThiswashissecretrecipeofStyrofoamgrounddowntojustits littlewhiteballs,dissolvedingasolinewithVaselinestirredinto make it thick, to make it sticky so when he sprayed thegunk on the ceiling it never dripped, and when he sprayed it on window glassitdidn’trundown.

He’d added some paint thinner as a surfactant, his dad explained,tobreakthesurfacetensionsotheoozewouldn’tbead upbutwouldcoateverythingmoreevenly.

It was summer vacation so Frankie knew no hamsters or goldfish lived in any classroom.

Hisdadtookaimandsoakedasecuritycamerathatwasspying onthem.

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After the day of the lunchroom beat–down Frankie couldn’t remember, his dad never looked at him. If his dad looked in his direction all he saw was the scar that now ran down the side of Frankie’s face. A red line shaped like the curved edge of a Nike basketballshoewherethecheekskinhadtorn.Evennowwalking down the empty summer hallway lined with lockers but no padlocks,Frankiecouldfeelhisdadsneaklooksatthescar.Frankie’s dadneversmiledathim,notafterthatday.Hescowled,buthewas scowlingatthescar.Theghostofthatfinallaststomp.Thelastday in publicschool.

Lining the halls, big posters showed smiling kids from every place on the planet. Holding hands under a rainbow with covering the rainbow the words “Love Comes in Every Color.”

His dad hosed the poster. Doing so, the look on his dad’s face was worse than any scar. From his expression, he wanted to be spraying this fire juice into the eyes and mouths of those kids who’d left their footprints on Frankie for the rest of his life.

Hisdadsaid,“Nobodyisgoingtoshitonthisfamily,everagain.” Beforetheywentouttothecar,hisdadtookouthisphoneand placedacall.Hesaid,“Hello,mayIspeaktoyournewsdirector?” Withonehandheduginhispantspocket.“ThisisFireMarshall Benjamin Hugh. We’re currently responding to reportsthatthe Golden Park Elementary School is ablaze.” From hispockethe withdrewabookofmatches.Heendedthecallandplacedanother. “Hello,mayIspeaktotheCityDesk?”Frankie’sfatherheldthe matchesouttohisson.Frankietookthem.Waiting,hisfather turnedawayfromthephoneandsaid,“Todayisjustpractice.Just to see how many show up.”

Into the phone, he said, “I’ve gotten word that arsonists have struck another local school.” He listened. “It’s Golden Park Elementary.”

Frankie stood by, holding the matches, just as he’d stood by at Madison Middle School and Immaculate Heart and the three schoolsbefore.Frankiefiguredthiswouldbethelastschool,and thathisdadhadonlyburnedthe otherssothisonewouldn’tlook special.Whenhisdadwasfinishedwiththelastphonecall,then Frankie knew what camenext.

“Frankie,you...,”hisdadkneltinfrontofhimandtookbothof Frankie’ssmallhandsinhisown,saying,“Son,thesedipshitswill payyoutributefortherestofyourlife!”Heletfalloneofthesmall hands and reached up to stroke the scar on the side of Frankie’s innocent,trustingface.“Myboy.Youwillgrowtobecomeaking! And your sons will be princes!” He lifted the one small handhe stillheldandputittohisownlips.

As a special treat, his father let Frankie light the match.

After that they went outside to count how many reporters and cameramenwouldshowup.Atfirstitwasonlyacoupletelevision crews,butnoweverystationcame,plussomeforeignersintown fortheserialarsonstory.Thenewspapersentateam.Evenahelicopter. Radio stations sent people. Frankie’s dad took notes and strategizedhisclearestanglesandbestshots,toseehoweasyhis workwouldbewhentheactualdaycame.

Only then did Frankie’s dad dial 9-1-1.

*

TweedO’Neillandhercrewbeatthefirstenginecompanytothe ragingschoolinferno.Ofcourse,theFireMarshallwasalreadyon thescene.Othertelevisionnewscrewsweresoontofollow,aligningtheirsatellitehook-ups,eachanglingforthebestviewofthe blaze.Itwasthecity’sfourthschooltogoupinflamesrecently. Every outlet worked from the same press releases, but this time Tweedhadbroughtasecretweapon.

Enter Dr. Ramantha Steiger-DeSoto, a senior professor in Gender Studies at the university. The lady doctor was a well-spoken, camera-friendly egghead with her own unique spin on serial arson. Tweed had texted the doctor from the television studio, and the two met up at the crime scene as flames leapt high into the sky. With the gymnasium collapsing slowly behind them, sending up bright geysers of sparks and embers, Tweed blocked out the interview. She and the doctor stood at a safe distance as the cameraman adjusted his focus and the sound technician wired a microphone tothelapelofthedoctor’sAnnTaylortrenchcoat.

ThroughherearpieceTweedcouldheartheanchorsdiscussing thefire.Inamomentthey’dthrowtheaudiencetoher,live,on location. She eyed her competition. None had brought anything newtothestory.TheyweremerelypassingtheFireMarshall from set-up to set-up, and he was giving each outlet the same list of official facts.

“Itwasthecity’sfourthschooltogoupinflamesrecently. Every outlet worked from the same press releases, but this time Tweedhadbroughtasecretweapon.”

The doctor appeared unfazed by the bright camera lights and the billowing, acrid smoke. Someone had suggested a rumored propane tank, possibly related to the school’s kiln, was liable to explode at any instant. Nevertheless Dr. Steiger-DeSoto looked determinedtovoicehertheoryaboutrecentevents.Standingtall, almostaheadtallerthanTweed,herfrizzyblondehairwastiedup inasensiblebun.Shelookedeveryinchtheno-nonsensesociologistwhostoodreadytoenlightenthetelevisionviewers.

“Tweed O’Neill here at the scene of yet another three-alarm fire,” Tweed began. “Marking the destruction of a fourth local school this summer.”

The cameraman widened the shot to include both women. “With me tonight is Dr. Ramantha Steiger-DeSoto topresent insightintothemotivefortheserecentfires.”Tweedturnedtothe elegantacademic.Shetossed,“Yourthoughts,doctor?”

Thedoctor wasn’tfazed bytheattention.“Thankyou,Tweed.” Shefacedthecamerafull-on.“Federalcriminalprofilingshows the average arsonist to be a white male between the ages ofseventeen and twenty-six. For this man, the act of fire setting is sexual in nature . ..”

As if on cue the rumored propane tank exploded deep withinthe building, a concussive boom-BOOM that elicited a deep moan from the crowdpresent.

The doctor continued, “For the pyrophiliac, the act of spraying liquid accelerant equates to expressing his sexual ejaculate in a symbolic degrading rape of the structure . . .”

Backed by the hellish glare of flames, the doctor proclaimed, “Men in general need to accept their diminished status in the world.” Against a backdrop of smoke and shouting, she added, “The impending war, for example, will be an excellent opportunity for them to earn the acclaim they crave.”

Tweedtossedtocommercial.“Thankyou,doctor.ThisisTweed O’Neill at the pointless destruction of another community landmark.”

The cameraman signaled the feed had cut.

The doctor fumbled with her clip-on mic. Suddenly pensive, she asked, “What’s he doing?” She glared at something in the middledistance.

Only now did Tweed notice the little boy. A grade school–aged child with a strange discolored mark running down one side of his face. Then the reality struck her: It was so cute. The District Fire Marshall had brought his own little son to watch Daddy at work.